Coastal Gilligan's Island

Last night Landon and I were invited to visit some folks on a coastal island. There are lots of coastal islands here, but this one was very special. So special, in fact, that I'm not going to tell you where it is. It is a kind of Secret Garden for this couple -- they have constructed their own home -- of sorts -- along with amenities.

My favorite part was the wood-heated hot tub. Made in Japan, this soaking tub operates with a mini wood stove that attaches to an oval, not round, wooden structure, which efficiently heats the water in the tub. Sitting in this tub, you have almost a 360 degree view of the coastline. It's spectacular.

So, there we were...on the dock...watching the sun go down, the dophins feeding nearby, while the new moon emerged. Looking up in the sky, I saw nothing but millions of bright stars. So clear that you could see the Milky Way. We drank wine (except for me...I had ginger ale) and ate pate and cheese and bread and we talked about everything from sustainable farming to chamber music and poetry to the state of the economy.

After awhile, we decided to go back to the mainland and so we bundled up in winter coats, blankets, hats and climbed into the boat where we talked and talked as we made our way back home, under the canopy of a dark, but star-studded sky.

So far from my life in New York, I thought. What a long strange trip this has been...

Transitions

What I do for a living is to help people through transition. Usually it is work related -- job loss or wanting to change careers or wanting to work independently.

And, now I find myself in the biggest transition of my life -- life transition.

As I sit here, on the 29th of December, reflecting back on this year, I am struck by just how much transition I have had to process this year. And, am still processing...

- from being single to married.
- from living in a great two bedroom apartment on the East Side of New York City to a beautiful home in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. Think Patrick Conroy country.
- from living in the North to living in the area where the Seccessionist movement began.
- from having 5 Starbucks' within a 4 block radius of my apartment to having to drive 35 minutes to find one coffee shop.
- from eating Cheerios for dinner to cooking deer roasts in a slow cooker and baking in the morning.
- from swing dancing in clubs in New York City to riding a horse over dikes in the country.
- from riding the 4,5 and 6 subway trains to get around the city to driving everywhere in the Envoy.
- from preparing for dates on a Friday night to sitting in deer stands with my husband.

What a long, strange trip it's been...

Christmas Trees in the South

Here's our Christmas tree...

When I lived in New York City, we would put our trees out on the street when the holiday was over. It was fun to see the city sidewalks lined with trees, smelling like balsam. What would happen to the trees? Well, the city sanitation trucks would pick up the trees and chop them up for mulch. Or, at least, that's what we were told. I always felt good about recycling the trees.

In the South, there is different way of recycling trees, just as there is a different way of doing most things.

What are we doing with our Christmas tree? We have it sitting in our front lawn, ready to be taken over to our farm property so that we can dump it in our pond. Are we littering? Careless? Nope, quite the contrary. Apparently, a Christmas tree makes a wonderful habitat for...bream. And, if you Northern city slickers are reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about, bream is a kind of fish, fish that is very important if you want to keep bass in your pond.

I'm in Chicago

It's really cold here...and snowy.

This is the snowman that Luke and Emily and I made this morning. What do you think?

We discovered that the snow isn't good for packing and that it took forever to roll the snow so that we could build this guy.

Pretty cute, don't you think?

Now, this is something I won't get to do in the South!

Becoming Mrs. Thorne

The Christmas cards have been pouring in. Every day our mailbox is chock-a-block full with well-wishers from around the globe.. Most of the cards are addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Landon Thorne or Colonel and Mrs. Landon Thorne.

And then it hits me…I am Mrs. Landon Thorne.

I still don’t really know what that means. I get a little thrill that runs down my spine when I realize that not only am I married, a state of being at which I still marvel, but that I am married to Landon Ketchum Thorne, the man of my dreams. That I am Mrs. Thorne, that we are a couple and the Christmas cards that are coming in, addressed to Mr. and Mrs., or Colonel and Mrs. are an acknowledgement of that fact.

Pinch me…

Life Down Here...

I'm getting used to the Low Country.

The other day I took a walk and found myself analyzing the deer tracks on the side of the road, separating the doe from the buck tracks, and trying to figure out how big the bucks were that passed by. Wow! That's cool. Didn't do that in New York.

Later that day, I went on a horse cart ride and we saw a covey of vultures sitting on a fence near the side of the road. There were 9.

And, then last night, I went to a friend's house to have dinner. We ate alligator -- one that was taken, about 11 feet long. The meat came from the sides of the tail. It tasted like tough chicken, in a delicious lemon/lime marinade.

Then we had elk meat from the grill. It was amazing -- my favorite meat. And, I know it was healthy -- because my host killed it, hung and dressed it, and packaged it himself.

He told us about raking littleneck clams. I'm looking forward to clamming, crabbing and shrimping. There sure are a lot of natural food sources down here!

PS. One of the guests told me that he reads this blog! I'm going to commit, right here, to being more regular about my postings. Stay tuned...

I live in a Red State

It's two days after the election and I realize...I live in a red state.

Right now, I really miss being in New York. I can't believe that I missed the biggest election probably in my lifetime. The superintendent who cares for my former apartment building said that he could hear trumpets in Harlem. My friend Gina was in Times Square during Obama's speech and said that everyone was celebrating -- strangers hugging, cab drivers who pulled over on the side of the street with their doors open so that passersby could hear. Now, that's the America I want to live in. I can't believe I missed it.

I miss the vibe of the city.
I miss the energy of the city.
I miss the passionate engagement of the people in the city.

Am I really going to be able to craft a life in South Carolina? I know that I can, but it's going to take some work. My life is all about affecting change, about getting passionately engaged in what I believe, about speaking out. It was easy for me to do that in New York because I was right in the middle of things -- I'm going to have to work harder down here. Stay tuned...

Fishing

Two weeks ago, my husband and I visited some of our land in North Carolina in the Bethel Valley and on the property is a beautiful small trout stream. Since he LOVES to flyfish, he jumped out of the car and said that he wanted to take a couple of casts before we moved on to our next activity. Well, you know what happens if you try to rush? Take a look... :o)

My Weekend

You should have seen me...

I was wearing a camouflage top, standing in the kitchen, cooking up some fine maple venison sausages and some eggs for my man. i'm getting the hang of this Southern cookin' thing...

This was followed by an amazing kayak down the creek -- we saw vultures over the place where Landon thought there was an injured deer; we saw a HUGE buck in the middle of mating with a doe; we saw a bald eagle soaring overhead, spotting his prey; and we saw lots of egrets, blue herons and smaller birds. No alligators, fortunately.

Later that night we went over to a friend's house on the way to an oyster roast. This is what is so disorienting about the South, its heritage creeps up on you and shows up in surprising places. Perching myself on the edge of the sofa, -- I had just met Steel Magnolias "Mary", a delightful, iconic Southern lady, cousin of the hostess, -- when my eyes glanced at the coffee table...and there it was. A copy of "Confederate Veteran" magazine. Now, that's something I wouldn't have seen in a friend's place in New York!

We went to the Oyster Roast at the Yacht Club, where they had standing tables covered in hot steaming shells. Each of us helped ourselves to the bounty of oysters, some tough, some moist, some drenched in the pluff mud, all yummy, shucking with our knives and holding the shells with our paper towels, gloves or bare hands. In an attempt to help me assimilate, Landon bought me my own oyster knife and gloves. There's nothing like standing in front of the bonfire, at a table, shucking freshly cooked oysters under a new moon. It was heaven...

Halloween, "Haints" and more..

Last night was Halloween and we were invited to a party. I decided to go as a camouflaged deer hunter – and advertise for this blog Bubba-ette or http://www.bubba-ette.com/ . How do you like the outfit?

That's right, when you deer hunt, you wear the camo top and pants, camo snake boots, camo baseball cap -- and even a camo face mask that makes you look like an eco-terrorist. Do you see my rifle? Oh yeah, and don't forget the camouflage gloves with the forefinger cut out on the right hand so that you can feel the metal trigger on your gun. The only thing I left out last night was raccoon urine on my shoes. Didn't think my party hostess -- or guests -- would appreciate that!?

We live in the Low Country of South Carolina…next to a cemetery, live oaks, Spanish moss hanging low over the tombstones. Apparently, according to local lore, it is home to a ghost – a headless horseman on horseback, soldier from the Revolutionary War.

Last year, my husband thought it would be fun to have a big bonfire to celebrate Halloween up here on our bluff to summon up the “haints," the word for ghosts in Southern slang.

First it was the man in the Post Office. “Colonel, I heard that you want to have a party to summon up the haints…I wouldn’t do that Colonel. There are some pretty mean haints up your way.” Then it was the guy at community gardens. “Colonel, folks have been talking about your wanting to have a bonfire to call up the haints. It’s not a good idea Colonel." So...there was no bonfire, no party, no summoning up the "haints." When local folk speak, he listens.

Down here, people paint blue over the entrances to their homes to keep out the haints. Who knows...maybe we should think about doing that…

Wooly Worm Festival

We came up to the High Country of North Carolina to attend the Woolly Worm Festival.

Here's how the event got started...according to the Avery County website:

"Back in the late 1970s, the editor of the now-defunct Mountain Living Magazine, Jim Morton, was preparing to include a Woolly Worm Forecast in the winter issue of the magazine. He photographed the first Woolly Worm he saw to use in formulating the prediction and illustrating his story, but the next day he saw a second worm that looked completely different from the first.

'That's when it struck me that we needed some formal procedure to use to decide which was going to be the official worm for making the winter forecast,' said Morton. "

And so, the event was born!

There are craft vendors, food vendors with specialities like funnel cakes, smoked turkey drumsticks, and more. But, the most important part of the day is the worm races. You can purchase and name your worm. About 25 worms at a time race. The way it works is that you purchase and name your worm, go to the stage and when the announcer says "go", you put your worm on a string. The goal is to see which worm gets to the top of the string first. The best part is watching the people cheer on their worms. They clap, they yell, they cajole, they threaten. It's very competitive. Sometimes the worm just hangs on, going nowhere. Other times, the worm will climb up almost to the top, only to climb down to the bottom.

At the end of the weekend, all of the finalists race each other and the fastest worm wins. Then that worm is used to predict the weather for the winter. Gee, I wonder what kind of winter we will have...

PS. I almost forgot to tell you...my favorite part of the day is not listening to the hilarious names of the worms or watching the crazy people cheering their worms onto victory. My favorite part is watching people tote around special "worm houses" that you can buy for your worm after your worm has done its work. People walk around, carrying these boxes, filled with their trusty worm.

From the Low Country to the High Country

We live in the Low Country -- and this weekend we flew to the High Country, over the green and brown landscape dotted with farms and developments and fields, some cultivated, some not.

(I loved looking at all the various shades of color, from the bright green of the crops to the greyish green of the grasses and tawny green of the marshgrasses to the red clay of the land and the deep brown of the dirt. In fact, I took some pictures from the plane to aid me in my color selection for the house.)

There is nothing like getting away from your home, with its routines, its intimate insularity and regularity to give you a fresh perspective on things. Particularly those things which are complicated and distressing and perplexing.

And, fresh it was. The crisp mountain air, the bright colors of the trees and the mist, all contributed to a vernal freshness that was refreshing and inspiring.

'Coons in the Corn Pile

There are raccoons in the corn pile out at Hoota Woods.

We bought a camera to put on our corn feeder so that you can see what kind of critters come and eat in the night -- and when they come to eat.

Lookyhere...it's a raccoon party! How many do you see?

Somehow, it's fun to know that when I'm tuning in to see Jon Stewart reruns, we have raccoons feasting in the field. Why, it's a wonderful life!

Miss Flo-isms

AS you'll read in my upcoming book about my early days moving from New York City to the Low Country of South Carolina, "Miss Flo" is a critical part of our household. She's does many things: she's the one who keeps me from "looking like an unmade bed"; she makes sure everything is neat and tidy and clean, the kitchen, the house, our clothes, the laundry; she tends the plants and she knows everything that happens in this house. But, most of all, Miss Flo is willing to share her wisdom. Like this morning when she said:

"The first cup of coffee is the best cup. After that, you're just drinking..."

Magazine Fever

If it is true you are what you read, I'd like to introduce my husband to you. In the last 48 hours, these are the following magazines that have been delivered to our home:

The Officer - (Reserve Officer Association)
Trout Unlimited
Aircraft Owner
Multifamily Executive - a real estate publication
The New Yorker
Bass Pro - for your hunting and fishing needs
Farmer Tek - it speaks for itself
Mensa -- The Magazine of American Mensa
Army Motors - Journel of the Military Vehicle Preservation Association
Business Week
Supply Lines - Publication of Military Vehicle Preservation Association

Meet Landon. He's one of a kind! :o)

Meetin' Friendly Folks

The great thing about the South is that you get to meet people and get to know their personalities. Maybe it's because you don't get to see many people during the day -- like in New York where you see thousands of people before the day is done -- that they are willing to take the time to connect and talk and share.

Down here, people stop to talk and they expect the same from you. If you don't take the time, you are considered rude, rushed and recalcitrant. There is a benefit to taking the time -- you kinda get to know folks and their story, and sharing stories creates a sense of personal connection. Take yesterday for example.

Yesterday I was working in the house and the doorbell rang. It was a lawn service guy who wanted me to put the dogs up so that he could treat our lawn. I guess I could have gone back into the house after I put the dogs in the pen, but instead, because of the culture here, I felt impelled to go over to talk to him.

Bobby was his name. And, before we were done, I knew more than I wanted to about fireants (see other post), mole crickets, moles and armadillos. But I also learned about him -- about how he and his wife just adopted two children this year, a one year old and a sixteen month old, both girls; about how he crashed his SUV gas guzzler and was happy that he could buy a more fuel efficient car; a little about his travels north to Atlantic City, some about my neighbors here on the sporting plantation, and about the weather. Interestingly, we didn't talk about the political or economic situation. These conversations are not intellectual repasts, they are simply conversations. Between folks.

Down here, people aren't afraid to let you get to know them. They are very friendly and open to me, despite my Northern, Yankee sensibilities.Yesterday, I also met Tony the painter. Why before he left, I knew about his brother who bought him a ticket to Las Vegas and his hesitancy about going because of his gambling tendencies ( kind of like sending an alcoholic to a cocktail party I think); his relationship to Laurie the decorator and how he disagreed with some of her decorating concepts; his knowledge of paint and his suggestions for finding the right color.

I guess people are people, but in the South, the pace is such that people can be people and still take the time to connect with one another. It's nice. I like it. (Except having to wave at people who drive by while I'm walking. Why should I wave to a total stranger?)

In the north, I also felt connected to my neighborhood, but the connection manifested itself differently. I knew my drycleaner, my deli owner, the manager of Gristedes, the guy who sold fruit on the sidewalk, Bibi, the woman who cleaned the women's dressing room in the New York Sports Club. I "knew" them, but I didn't know their names. I knew their faces, I saw them every day and they became woven into the fabric of my life in the city. If they didn't see me for a week, they would ask how I'd been, if everything was all right because then hadn't see me. And, I knew nothing of their stories. I knew them -- but never really "knew" them at all.

Fire ants

The first thing you learn about the South is this: they've got bugs. Lots of bugs. Bugs that bite: why, they've got red bugs, mosquitoes that love Yankee flesh and leave welts the size of quarters, and horseflies the size of crickets. But, the worst of the bugs -- at least as far as I have experienced -- is the fire ant.

Fire ants bite. And, their bite is like fire. They inject poison into the skin, poison that lingers below the skin for days and then as the body fights it off, gathers into pustules that last for weeks. I still have marks on my feet that are from biters I got in...August. That's right. It's October and I have marks from August.

So, yesterday, when Bobbie came to "treat our lawn" for moles and armadillos, he wanted to talk to me about our fire ant hills.

He told me a lot about fire ants. We have 3 fire ant hills in our front yard, each of them about a foot in diameter. While most ant hills have a hole at the top of the hill in the middle, fire ants have no such thing. Fire ant hills are highly-organized, sophisticated communities, where different groups of ants have different types of responsibilities. You have the scouts, the food people, the worker ants, the "queen" ants -- more about all these groups later.

Down here, fire ant hills are year round because we don't get enough frost to kill them off. Apparently, the "worker" ants are able to raise and lower their hill in order to moderate hill temperatures. I'm thinking that they lower the hill into the ground during weather extremes, either when it's very cold, in order to keep warmed by the earth, or when it's very hot so that they can stay cooler, protected from the scorching sun and insulated by the cooler dirt around them, and keeping them close to water supplies. Fire ants can burrow down 100 yards below the surface to find water. What happens is the "organizers" will send out "scout" fire ants to look for sources of water and these fire ants are directed to dig and clear until they have created mazes of tunnels beneath the surface, connecting the hill to the water supplies.

Food? I don't know what they eat, but here's HOW they eat. The food is brought into the hill to the "food processor", no not a type of kitchen instrument, but an ant with special gastronomic powers, who takes the food into his extra large lip that serves as a food tray, and after he sprays his special enzymatic juices onto the food in order to break it down digestively, will offer it to the other ants to eat, like a hostess offering hors d'oeuvres at a party. Just another one of the specialties of the fire ant groups. So, we've got the scouts, the food processors and now....

The Queen. Every hill has 3 queens, whose job, like that of a honey bee, is to reproduce. I don't know how long the Queens stay in the hive, but at some appropriate moment there must be an election and one Queen is designated to stay with her hive...while the other Queens "float" to start other hives. Apparently, they don't fly, they "float" and scientists have tracked some Queen fire ants who have floated up to 12 miles away from their original hills.

Pretty impressive social organization, no? But, my respect for their communities is outweighed by my remembrance of their bites -- and I give the go-ahead to Bobbie to exterminate the hills. Hope it works...

Coming or Going?

Sometimes I wonder...am I coming or going?

A week ago Sunday I was in New York City, where I conducted two church services (and went to a street fair). Monday I met with my clients at JPMorgan Chase/Bear Stearns Career Center, where I counsel folks who have been laid off by both firms, followed by a very long, intense night meeting at my church. Slept overnight at the Yale Club, followed by a Tuesday morning meeting with church bankers. Off to the airport and flew home. Wednesday consisted of all day of tax preparation so that I could have a substantive meeting with my tax accountant Thursday. Friday I tried to do some recordkeeping and reporting for my work with the bank and kept my hair appointment Friday afternoon...color, cut, shop for a grandbaby, quick fix at the local coffee shop, where I sat and sipped my wet cappuccino outside, overlooking the harbor and watching the last minute preparations for the Beaufort Shrimp Festival. Home for dinner and up the next morning and to airport to fly to Tampa for a family weekend, which was tumultuous, back on Monday afternoon, had a phone appointment with a client, followed by Tuesday in the house, getting reoriented in my business and preparing for a church board meeting, which I had over the phone for 3 hours, followed by 1/2 hour of debate watching, and then Wednesday, catching up with a 2 hour recorded class, followed by a 2 hour conference call that I hosted for an upcoming media project, followed by lunch, a "ride and dine," where I went on my first group horseback ride with people on the plantation (in the rain) and over dikes and by deer and alligators, which fortunately didn't spook any of the horses, followed by a 2 hour phone call for the SuperIntern class, followed by a bratwurst and sauerkraut Ride 'N Dine dinner that Landon brought home for me, followed by...well bed. I don't know whether I'm coming or going...need to slow down. Take a breath. Relax. Sigh.....

Thoughts from Barbara

Folks here on the sporting plantation have been very warm and welcoming to me since I've arrived here. Folks like Barbara.

Barbara heard about my redecorating project in the house and kindly dropped off her renovation book she used for her newly reconstructed apartment in New York City. As a result, I created my own redecorating book -- collections of paint samples in the front pocket; photographic scenes of living rooms, kitchens, dining rooms from magazines under the first tab; appealing color schemes under the second; different types of chairs for purchase under the third; rugs under the fourth; and patio furniture at the end. Seeing her book was so helpful and inspiring: I love having created a "vision book" to tie together all the ideas in my head.

Yesterday I called Barbara to reply to an invitation for a party she's hosting for her daughter and grandchildren this weekend. Should be fun! "My husband and I will come," I said and continued, "By the way, I'm still getting used to that term 'my husband'." She laughed and assured me that I had years ahead to get used to it.

We spent a few more moments talking about my transition from New York to down here in the Low Country and she said to me, kind of Zenlike, "Remember, you are not the person you used to be."

Yes, I'm no longer simply Leslie, or Miss Leslie or "Miss Lellie". I'm now Mrs. Thorne...and still getting my arms around what that means. There is only one thing that I do know...I love being Mrs. Thorne. :o)

MY HUSBAND IS A WINNER!!!

Yes, that's right. Check this out...

My husband won first place in today's fishing tournament. I'm so proud of him.

Tonight we ate his catch for dinner. Yum...

Yea! He won. How was first place determined? Total number inches of fish caught. And, everyone knows...

...inches matter.

On the Other Side of the Front

There were disturbances on the horizon...we could feel them and we wanted to get out of dodge before the storms hit.

Since we were flying, we needed to check the weather to see if there would be any storms in our flight path. The aviation weatherman advised that a front was coming, and that provided that we could get through one "iffy" patch, we would be able to get home.

We desperately wanted to get "on the other side of the front," although we knew there was some risk involved. Should we try to wend our way through the "iffy" spot in Jacksonville, not knowing what we would encounter, or play it safe and stay put in Tampa until it was completely clear, which could be days? We decided to go and do what it took to get to the other side of the front.

It wasn't easy -- we needed to bob and weave through cloud banks, ascend and descend as necessary, until we were free and clear from the disturbance. (Personally, I felt like I was in a video game, dodging hot air obstacles, flying through clouds that engulfed the plane and shrouded my vision, creative license taken.)

Here's a picture of our plane's wing as we passed to the "other side of the front", which you can see in the distance, cumulous clouds rising.

How many of you, when faced with an upcoming storm -- whether it be physical, emotional, mental or spiritual -- would do what you could to get out before the storm hits, knowing that you will have to work to navigate your way through risky terrain in order to get to safety on the other side? It would be safer to stay put. But, maybe, just maybe, it is better to take action when you feel a disturbance in the atmosphere and get out of the storm's way, rather than to stay inert and sit it out. Of course, the decision is always yours.

Plane Crash and Other Crashes...

It was a bad omen...

This past weekend, my husband and I decided to fly to Tampa, FL so that we could visit his oldest son and his wife, who just had a baby girl. She's adorable.

So, on Saturday morning, we drove to the airfield, loaded into the plane and took off.

It was a beautiful flying day, a perfect South Carolina day, not a cloud in the sky, just clear and blue. I could see the planted pine fields below, the marshes, the tiny fingers of the creeks that feed into the rivers that feed into the harbor that feeds into the ocean. Water everywhere. I could see islands below -- Cat Island, Dataw Island, Hilton Head Island, and more. Leaving the land, I see the world from an entirely different perspective, houses and farms just mere specks below and the horizon stretching endlessly in front of me, which leaves me filled with an increased sense of possibility.

As I was musing this way, I started listening in to the radio transmissions. We were close to the Savannah airport and I heard a woman's voice say: "Please give me the location for the closest airport. I am experiencing difficulty and I have to land." That didn't sound good. Dispatcher replied: "Hunter Airfield, 10 miles." Hunter is a military airfield very close to Savannah, which we had just passed, off my right side. The pilot in distress continued: "I'm not sure I can make it. I'm losing power quickly." With this, all other radio contact went silent as the pilot in distress and the dispatcher tried to manage the situation. He asked: "How many souls on board?" to which she replied: "One." And, then just silence. It was a horrible feeling, knowing that someone was in such extremity and we were witnessing it firsthand, watching it unfold, unable to help. She radioed again, but it was faint, you could hear her say something about the marsh and then there was nothing. Silence.

An airplane was nearby and radioed in: "I'm right overhead. I can see the plane in the marsh." She was down. And, then we heard this: "The plane is sinking. Do you want me to fly lower?"

And, right then, just at that point, we left the Savannah airspace and went onto a new radio frequency. We would have volunteered to go back, but there were planes in the area so we just went on. I couldn't stop thinking about this woman, her presence of mind. I was so impressed with her sense of composure, despite a horrible situation.

I couldn't stop thinking about her -- what happened? Did she survive? I so admired her calm against the sense of impending doom. It was so terrible to listen to the events of the trauma happen in real time, without being able to do anything but stand by and witness, watching and powerless to help. Reminded me of what happens in families when family members stand by and witness the slow destruction of one of their own -- let's say because of alcohol abuse or some other destructive behavior-- willing to help, yearning to help, but powerless to do so because only that affected family member can make decisions and take action to avert the disaster. How many of you have watched beloved family members crash?

I thought about her all day. Did she make it? Did she make the right decision? Did she pull up her landing gear so that it wouldn't flip her? Did she think about trying to land on a sandy beach or a farmer's field as a practical alternative to landing at an airport? Did she try to land on the bank of the marsh and not in the middle of the river? Did she open the door before the plane went into the water? I had so many questions about her decisions because I knew her decisions would determine the outcome of the situation, just like they do in every situation in life. "Your decisions will master you, whatever direction they take." (From a book entitled: Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy, p. 392:21)

When it comes to an alcoholic or substance abuser, the questions are: is s/he open to seeking help? Is s/he ready to take an honest look within? Is s/he willing to be honest with others? Can he or she keep commitments? Does he or she understand what s/he will lose if s/he continues to drink excessively? Does s/he see options and feel empowered to make decisions about his or her life, or simply feel victimized by circumstances which surround him or her? We have options. And, our actions are the result of decisions we make, conscious or not.

Back to the plane crash...when we arrived at our destination in Tampa, I asked the airport officials if they heard anything. They hadn't. So, I thought about it some more. It just seemed so real to me -- I could hear it all unfolding again in my mind.

Finally the next day I started to google combinations like "Savannah Airport+plane crash" and the like. You can read for yourself to find out what happened: http://savannahnow.com/node/587284 This crash story had a happy ending...not all crash stories do.

Inner and Outer Worlds

As I reflect on my life and the writing on this blog, I realize that many of my postings are about the changes that are taking place in my external world – moving from “The City” to the country, single to partner, a life with new activities, new pastimes, new friends. Those make the funniest stories. However, the most significant changes are actually the ones happening in my inner world – the story of how I am adapting to my new life, the emotional challenges of letting go of the old and embracing the new. Stay tuned...

Creatures of the South

Last week, during the Jewish holidays because New York City schools were closed, my friend Gina came to visit me down in the Low Country. We spent one morning sitting on our new patio furniture, enjoying the outdoors, when we spotted this little friend.

Can you see him?

PS. Photo by Gina

Redecorating

While my husband is busy hunting, I'm busy with redecorating plans for the house. We recently got married and I moved into his house, which he shared with his former wife. I would like to find a way to make the house feel more like my home.

Any advice for me?

It's the Rut...BANG BANG

Last night, my husband

"took" another deer. Two deer in 48 hours and not only deer, but two mature bucks. That's pretty amazing. Truthfully though, I don't know whether to be awed, or disgusted. (Northern sensibility says to be disgusted, Southern sensibility says to be proud that my man is manly enough to fill our freezer for the winter! )

I know, it's gross. But, you know what? For those meat eaters of you out there, hunting is a more humane way to "harvest" meat than the way most commercial meat -- pork, beef -- is taken. Do you know how they kill cows?

As I understand it -- and remember that I am still, to some extent, a city girl -- there is a philosophy behind responsible hunting and a very strong link between hunting and conservation.

Responsible hunting is about preserving a healthy herd of animals, and the way you do that is to "thin" the herd so that all animals will have plenty of access to food and water in order to be able to flourish and grow. You see, in the wild, it's all about having access to food and water. If the deer start to proliferate and the herd becomes overpopulated, the deer will start to become weak, skinny, have deformed racks, and start to behave erratically. That's what you see in neighborhoods where housing has encroached upon the natural habitat of deer and they start running around your backyard, eating your impatients and other flowers and just standing on the side of the road.

Since you want a healthy herd of deer, you need to maintain the size of your herd and in hunting, you do that by "harvesting" the older, weaker animals. You only take those older, mature animals, the ones who soon would be pushed out of the herd, the ones who are at the end of their prime. That's why the hunters on this sporting plantation (yes, I live on a sporting plantation)...that's why they only shoot male deer, bucks, who have at least 8 points on each antler or rack, or who have at least a 15 inch spread between their antlers. They would never kill a young buck, especially a button buck, a young male whose antlers look like little buttons on top of their heads because they haven't poked through the skin yet.

Apparently, this is the time of year for "the rut" when the bucks and does get together for alittle "birds and bees" action.

Last night, when in his deer stand, my husband noticed that the girls, the does, in the field were "atwitter," which usually signals that a male deer, a dominant buck, is nearby and "ready for action." So, my husband made grunting noises to simulate another male deer in the area. Bucks are highly territorial and so when the dominant buck heard the sound, he came out of the woods to confront the intruder, which unfortunately wasn't another buck, but was my husband...and well, you know the rest. Normally, big bucks are very wary and become nocturnal, rarely coming out of the woods in the daylight or even dusk. Only during the rut when they want to get "sump'em sump'em" do they let their guard down. Watch out guys...

My Husband "Took" The Monster

Around 7:45, he called. “I got the monster,” he said. "I just took a huge buck!"

I could hear the excitement in his voice. This was the one he had been waiting for.

He snapped a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me from the field. And, here it is…a massive 10 point!

For those of you who don't know, a 10 point refers to the number of points on a deer's antlers, commonly called a "rack." Here, on the sporting plantation where we live, you can only shoot a deer that is at least an 8 point, or one with 15 inches between the antlers. That means it is a mature deer, and one that can be "harvested."

Deer hunting is a HUGE part of the South. My husband waits all year for the opportunity to "take" a buck. "Take" is a euphemism for kill. (This northern city girl is still getting used to all this "taking.") This deer weighed 175 pounds, roughly the equivalent of two does, and will do much to replenish our meat coffers. You should see the size of our freezers. We'll have plenty of meat for me to cook up this winter! More on that in upcoming posts...

I'm so proud of my husband. He's a great provider. Of course, being a city girl, a great provider used to mean a guy who had a great job with a big salary so that we could pay the bills -- but down here, a great provider is a guy who has a great shot so that we can fill our tummies.

OMG I'm Southern!

Yesterday, it happened…

After many months of sustained resistance, I finally succumbed. This Yankee girl has officially become a Southerner.

I could feel it coming on – vowels elongating, as in “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii y’all”; monosyllabic words becoming two, as in “griiiiats” and shriiiiamp”, the double negatives – and the slow slide into vernacular – “I am fixing to go.”

Yes, the lure of the South was too much for me. The sweet, moist air, the pungent smell of the puff mud, the whiff of salt, the gentleness even amidst the suffocating humid heat, the abundance of pristine land and wildlife, close to nature, feeling the rhythms of the land and its seasons, I feel embraced by it all.

And so yesterday, armed with my passport, social security card, Connecticut driver’s license and local bank bill, I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Ridgeland and got my South Carolina driver’s license. So, that’s it. It’s official. I am now a Southerner.

To prepare for this momentous occasion, I loaded up into the family SUV and turned on the radio, adjusting it to the best country music station I could find, and blasted country tunes while I sped down the highway, trying to “get my head right” for what was about to happen…my christening into Southernhood.

Actually…and please don’t tell anyone…I’m secretly pleased. I like being a Southerner. It sure is different down here, that’s for sure. So different that sometimes I feel like I’m in a foreign country where I am an alien, and of course I am since I’m a born and bred Yankee and know that my homeland is up North. But, the South is irresistible.

The people are very kind. I don’t know whether it’s because they had to take care of each other in these rural communities, while suffering under Yankee Reconstructionist policies, or whether it’s just that the environment makes you so, but the people are genuinely kind. Not “Minnesota nice” with the artificiality of niceness on the outside while hearts and minds can be stone cold inside, nor “Midwest friendly” where the people all wave and say “hi” and appear to be your friend, even while disallowing you to get to know them below the surface of acquired pleasantness. And, certainly they are not like New Yorkers, who wear their toughness on their sleeve as a badge of honor, and walk about in cones of protective isolation that appear to outsiders to be “cold” and “unfriendly”, even while, as they proved on the days of September 11, that they are helpful beyond measure and would do much to help their fellow neighbor in need. Southerners are not like New Englanders, who define themselves through their gruff, no-nonsense exterior, whose veneer, though imposing, is thin and melts like ice on a brackish pond in the early morning sun, revealing hearts of gold inside.

The South defines itself by its hospitality and it seems to me that it is unfeigned. People are genuinely nice and not afraid to be so. They hug easily. They look out for each other. They know each other’s business and they care. I’m not saying it’s perfect. Of course, there are always the peculiar kinds of things that happen in small communities, where this one talks about that one and can-you-believe-that-she-did/said-that stuff, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, even when it’s private, and where people jockey for power and position in the church, on the school board, in social circles. But, you’ll find that everywhere. People are people, driven by human tendencies and motivated by the ego, they tend to behave in predictable ways – who is bigger, better, faster, smarter…but that’s just people being people.

Southerners value graciousness and that value permeates the life down here. I’m proud to be Southern...

Leapin' Lizards

Help! There’s a lizard in my bathroom…

No fooling. There’s a lizard in my bathroom, an armadillo in the backyard and an alligator in the marsh. What’s a girl to do?

This lizard in the bathroom, he looks pretty scared. In fact, he leaped up on the wall…now I know where the comic book term “Leaping lizards” originates.

They do leap. Then he scrunched down, with his two left legs holding his body perpendicular to the wall, and he folded his right legs against his body so that I couldn’t see them, as if he was trying to fit into a tight hiding space. Of course, green against white tile is hard to miss.

I don’t want to hurt him, but I would like him outside. Last time, I chased a lizard with a book and a garbage pail to the door. It didn’t work very well, the lizard almost had a heart attack it was freaking out so much, and I only did it because the lizard was close to the door any way. This time “he” is a room away from the door.

Any advice on how to get a lizard out of your bathroom? I’d love to hear from you…

PS. Miss Cindy who cooks in the house here told me there is a way to pick up baby lizards where they literally freeze and you can “clip” them on to your ear. A country girl’s trick, she said. Well, I’ve got too much city in me to try it…

Welcome!

bubba-ette

From Urban Dictionary.com:

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=bubba-ette


The female of the southern species, Bubba. Able to rebuild the engine of your GMC dualie pickup.May often go by the nickname Sugar, Darlin' or Moley. Once saved, may be addressed as Holey Moley.

My name is Leslie and I am becoming a bubba-ette. I'm writing this blog to tell my story...


Two years ago, I was leading the high-flying urban lifestyle of a single New York City based career woman living on the Upper East Side of New York. Not exactly "Sex in the City," but I was having fun. You see, I love New York City and all it has to offer.

I love to attend classical music concerts in Carnegie Hall.
I love to listen to the blues downtown.
I love to skate at Rockefeller Center.
I love to swing dance outside at Lincoln Center.
I love to eat Greek food in Astoria.
I love to sunbathe at Brighton Beach while eating Russian specialities I bought on the street.
I love the bright lights, big city.

Just when I had everything going...I met a Southern boy and fell in love. Well, actually we met 12 years ago and that was in a business context and it wasn't love, it was just professional compatibility. But that's another story...

So, now I'm in love and in process of adjusting to life in the Low Country, which for those of you who do not know, is in South Carolina. I live in a place where, if I want to grab a cup of coffee with a friend, I have to drive 35 minutes. I am in the middle of nowhere...

The changes are dramatic: from North to South; from urban to rural; from single to engaged, about to be married to a man who has 4 grown children. I will become a kind of grandmother without having been a mother.

I invite you to come here regularly to hear the sometimes funny, sometimes painful, always amusing stories of the transition from a city girl to a Southern bubba-ette.